Flying or Falling?
by letschangetheworld
Summary: Through the rough moments in your life, it's been your motto for years; hate is safer than love. Until, that is, James Potter breaks it down.


It's a little messy and a little confusing and probably doesn't make much sense, because well, my brain doesn't.

But it's an explosion of fluff and slighty angsty and the characters are unfortunately **not mine** (let's not discuss how much I want my own little James, though). Please be so kind as to review! Constructive criticism is always appreciated.

Written in second person, our beloved Lily Evans.

* * *

Hate is safer than love.

It's sort of become your motto in life, your way of looking at certain situations and circumstances.

You hate your son-of-a-bitch biological father because he left your mum shortly after your birth, abandoning you and Petunia, who was only a few years old at the time. Hate is safer than love, because opening up _that_ can of worms would unleash a whole whirl wind of therapy-worth trust issues.

Your hate your ex-best friend because he changed right before your eyes, embarrassed you in front of your peers during a moment of his _own_ weakness where you attempted to stand up for him, associates himself now with people whom you know find pleasure in the Dark Arts and torture and will continue to find satisfaction causing pain. Hate is safer than love, because even though you know he had (or _has_) feelings for you in a different way, you can't bring yourself to dwell too much on that because of how much his betrayal still hurts you.

You hated (past tense, you cringe) James Potter because he was an arrogant boy who thought himself God's greatest gift to women and he thought way too much about his own looks and caused infinite mischief with his fellow Marauders (the origin and purpose of their four-person group simply baffles you) and liked to prank people, especially naive first-years. Hate was safer than love, because he simply pushed each and every one of your buttons and you couldn't imagine yourself _not_ loathing him.

You still vehemently loathe your virtually non-existent dad and your indistinguishable ex-best friend, but James Potter is different.

You are unsure what changed him over the summer, but suddenly he's given up on his futile attempts to ask you out and he's distanced himself from his mischiefing ways, stepping up to the plate and performing remarkably well so far as Head Boy. You catch him running his fingers through his wildly messy hair less and discover yourself witnessing his notable leadership skills more. He also makes sure to help out a first-year every now and then when it's clear they're lost or have just been verbally battered by an older student.

"Which would you fear most, flying or falling?"

You snap back to reality, rebounding back to the real world like a sling-shot. James has his hands in his pockets as you walk side-by-side down the darkened and empty corridor and he's looking down at you, awaiting your answer.

"Depends," you answer slowly. "Flying on what and falling from what?"

James considers this carefully and you see the little pull between his eyebrows. You don't blame him for wanting to talk about something remotely interesting; the last couple of nights have been awfully boring and even you, the responsible Head Girl, find yourself wanting to shoot yourself in the foot. It's a Friday night, but nobody is rebellious, nobody sneaks out of their dorms.

"Well, naturally you're flying on a broom," he begins, as you turn the corner together and find yourself approaching the Head tower. "And you're falling from… the bleachers at the Quidditch pitch."

"Am I caught while I'm falling or do I hit the ground? Because if it's the latter, than I'll definitely go with flying. But then again, what sort of weather conditions am I flying in?"

James looks down at you again, completely bemused and yet amused at the same time. "You certainly do think things through, huh? You hit the ground and you're in shitty weather, I guess."

"It's what I do," you reply with a shrug of your shoulders. "I'm going to go with falling as my final answer."

"Really?"

"Well, yeah. At least with falling you know you're going to eventually hit rock bottom. You could end up flying for days and days. Falling is something definite and unquestionable. It'll end eventually."

James is silent, you're both silent, as you approach the tower. You're quite frankly exhausted and never has your private bedroom seemed so desirable. The portrait swings open and reveals the smaller, yet even cozier version of the Gryffindor common room except it lacks other students, mess and Sirius Black.

"You've changed."

He glances at you, having stopped to admire the way the embers are burning out on the logs in the fireplace. "What?"

"You've changed," you repeat, lingering at the bottom of the stairs that lead to your room. However inviting your warm bed seemed, the words just bubbled from your mouth unexpectedly.

"I see it more as growing up than changing. And you're really one to talk, Evans."

The way your surname rolls off his tongue effortlessly sends absurdly pleasant shivers down your body. "What's that supposed to mean?" You're on the defence, raising a slender eyebrow at your fellow Head.

James seems on the verge of spilling everything like a waterfall of information, but then decides on simply shaking his head with a cheery smile on his face. "Don't you worry your pretty little head over it, Lily. Goodnight."

He winks at you and carries himself up the stairs, leaving you at the bottom staring after him, mystified.

_Hate is safer than love_, you remind yourself.

Except when you find yourself leaning against your window sill, staring out at the blackened sky and the twinkling stars that you imagine are mocking you – we're pure, you're not – you discover your motto seems less like a motto and more like a wall, built up to protect yourself from the things that have hurt you, caused you pain, ripped your heart in half.

Bleeding heart. It's bloody and it's messy and dumping that on someone else… it's not something they deserves.

You _thought_ you were a head-case, a grade-A patient with severe abandonment and trust and self-loathing problems.

Taking down the barrier between you and the real world is not as hard a task as you may have thought. A chip, a fault line in the wall is already there, awaiting the next time Potter gives you that gut-wrenching smile or that heat-inducing wink that he gave you hours ago in the common room.

He could do anything and make that fault line expand, cracking its way up your motto like it's an ice shelf splitting in two. You remember when he leaned across you on the couch, both of you minding your own business at the time, to fetch his textbook.

The way his arm grazed your thigh, the way you were _thisclose_ to being able to skim your fingers through his hair, the way he smelt powerfully of cologne (not to heavy, either) and wood.

It strikes you suddenly, like a lightning bolt, like a blow to the stomach. Your Amortentia's aroma smelt strongly of the same.

"Oh, crap."

You're decided and a complete loony, but nevertheless you're decided.

The cozy common room is as dark as the sky outside, the fire resembling the dim twinkling of the stars. The staircase rises off to your right and you climb it, your heart (_bleeding, messy_) panicking inside your chest.

What are you doing? What are you doing?

Your injured wall props itself up again as you come to the top of the stairs. A dark wood door stares you in the face. You imagine it asking you what your purpose is, why you're there. You can't answer it because really, you have no purpose (at the moment, in life, you're not picky) but you're decisive on why you're there.

The moon is streaming through his bathroom window through the doorway, coloring lines of white on the wood floor of the bedroom. One side of his curtains aredrawn, but you see him sleeping soundly, a foot hanging out the side and one arm tucked underneath his pillow.

It brings a smile to your face, seeing him like this. It's unusual, weird. He's not animated or babbling or flirting or smiling, he's _sleeping_. You condone yourself a stalker but step in further.

Suddenly, you're stuck. Should you wake him or sit down and wait for him to – what are you even saying? You must certainly are not going to sit yourself down and wait for him. You're going to wake him yourself.

"James?"

A grunt in reply and he adjusts himself slightly.

"Potter! Potter? Wake up."

Another thirty seconds pass and you seriously consider yanking the pillow out from underneath his head but before you can reach forward, his breath hitches slightly and you see his eyes flicker open. Ten seconds later and recognition flashes through them.

_Oh, alright, I'm not being attacked, it's just the crazy Head Girl_.

"What in blazes name – "

"I change my answer," you disclose calmly, swinging your arms slightly at your side, unsure what to do with yourself because suddenly you're aware of every body part, most of them showing more than usual.

"What? Lily, is something wrong?" He shoves his glasses onto his face, albeit crooked, and swings his legs out of the covers over the side of his bed, sitting up and rubbing his hair.

"No," you answer quickly, afraid he assumes the castle was under siege. "I changed my answer."

"What answer?"

"Flying or falling? I think I'm going to fly."

James squints at you, still half asleep and groggy. He shakes his head a little, probably thinking that it's just a dream and even though you wish the exact same thing, you have to continue. You have to. Because never again will you have the balls to do something like this.

"If you're flying, you can explore. You can go to different places and approach new windows. You can feel the wind in your hair and your cheeks get flushed. It would be exhilarating, and that's what I want, exhilarating. Because I don't want to hate anymore, I don't want to be the girl who thinks that hating somebody is better than loving somebody."

"You completely lost me," James manages, sitting up a little bit more, a little bit more awake now. "Are you okay?"

"Hate was safer than love because when I loved, I loved my dad for years after he abandoned me and shacked up with some other woman. When I loved, I loved a best friend who turned out to be a complete fraud and who betrayed me and made me _hurt_."

He's rising from his bed, more concerned now than bewildered. James almost reaches a hand out to take yours, or maybe he was going to cup your cheek, or run it through your hair, hold you to him soothingly.

"When I loved people, it backfired on me. So hate was safer than love."

"You're using past tense," James whispers.

"I'm not finished yet," you counter. "I hated you. I hated who you were as a human and what you did and occasionally your friends, I hated them too. I hated the fact that you were this perfect pure-blood who was going to succeed in life and end up happy. I've never been the end-up-happy type of person but then, as you said, you grew up. Right in front of me."

His facial expression is something you can't read, sadly enough, but you can definitely tell that your heart (which had bled, which had been messy) is pounding ten-fold.

"I can't get you out of my head and I'm beginning to wonder if accepting love is safer than ignoring it."

The wall is crumbling around you, large bricks of self-consciousness falling to the ground and the wind, the change of tides, sweeping it all away, leaving a blank canvas.

"I… I think it is," James says, slowly. "Accept it. Just accept it."

You're not sure he's understanding a single world you're saying, but even in the middle of the night he seems to have grasped what you were trying to say.

You kiss him then, because if you didn't then you might as well have passed out right there in front of him. You can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest and arms when they wind around your waist. His heart – whole, ready, perfect – is beating fierce against your hand as you sweep it up his body through his hair where it remains nestled in the tangles of hair at the back of his head.

He pulls away and suddenly you're crushed against him, hugged intensely. His lips are everywhere; the part in your hair, your forehead, your temples, the tip of your nose, the shell of your ear, the side of your head, both cheeks.

The organ you call your heart is healing, rejuvenating itself after all the hardships that it has faced. The tears that have gathered in your lashes are nothing to you because father and ex-best friend be dammed, this is exhilarating.

This is what it feels like to be flying and falling at the same time.


End file.
